Behind Closed Doors
by claraoswelve
Summary: The physical pain distracts from the emotional pain. It was the only distraction she had. When things became too much to bear, Clara wasn't strong enough to turn away from the temptation of the blade. [Trigger Warning]


**A/N: Much different than what I usually write. I've been wanting to write this fic for a while, though. Hope I don't scare you away :)**

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><p><em>These wounds won't seem to heal<em>

_This pain is just too real_

_There's just too much that time cannot erase_

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><p>Feelings. It was funny how they worked. You can think one thing, have one strong opinion, have such a positive mindset that you think it will never fade away, only to have those feelings...those thoughts, ripped away from you like a band-aid to skin.<p>

Because that's just what they were. A band-aid. Those feelings never last. Those emotions only consume the tiniest portion of your life. Soon, for whatever reason it may be, they're taken away, leaving an empty void in your mind. And into that void come pouring the negative feelings. The sudden, unexpected downgrading of yourself. You don't know why. Don't know how or when it started, how or when it may end. All you know is what you feel. And those feelings remain.

It comes in like a hurricane, those negative thoughts. They may just be about practically everything. But as soon as your mind is overcome, the feelings begin to expand. Expand to more than just views on the outside world. They become views on the inside of _you. _

Clara Oswald. Just a young woman out of Blackpool, living her life day after day. Living a life of joy. Happiness. She had a wonderful job, her amazing Doctor, and was seldom unentertained when it came to the travels alongside her best friend.

But people have two sides. The inside and out. The outside is nothing. The outside is a shell, a barrier. A paper bag over your head with a grinning face. It's who you choose to be. It's who you show yourself to be, and it's who you _wish _you could be. But the inside...the inside is where everything becomes a reality. The inside is where your mind picks up on every small detail. Automatically registers every negative thing, pushing everything else away. You focus on those those specific thoughts, and your mind lets you not wander from them for a moment. You are haunted, plagued by the way you simply view yourself. The world's view might be completely different. But you don't dwell on that. Instead, you dwell on this. You're _fat. _You're _lazy. _You're not _pretty enough. _You want to be skinny, but you _can't stop eating. _You want help, but you're so _alone._ You've _loved, _you've _lost, _you've _let go._So you turn to the one thing you can think of. The one thing that you _know_ will take all of your pain away.

These were the plagues of her life. Every little thing piling on top of the other. But that was just it. _Little things. _Which only created another item for the list. You're not _strong enough. _

But for Clara, she felt a void so deep, such a dark, impenetrable abyss that it could never be filled. And that void was _loneliness._

Because who out there, who on planet earth, who _anywhere..._

Could love a girl with scars on her wrists?

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><p>The Doctor was worried for Clara. For the past several weeks, perhaps even months, she'd started tending to keep to herself. She frequently skipped out on Wednesday sessions, insistent on resting up on the next day's work at the school, or going on about unfinished homework grading she just <em>had <em>to finish. But even her moments aboard the TARDIS were different. Of course she smiled, laughed, hugged, but there was something deeper than the surface actions. There was something going on inside her...he didn't know what. And it pained him to admit that he was too frightened to confront her. But he knew there was something. Was she sad? Was she angry with him? No, if it were any of those things, it would be more obvious. So what was wrong?

The Doctor pushed the thought aside, refocusing his work beneath the console. If anything were truly wrong, Clara would just come to him for help.

Wouldn't she?

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><p>She wasn't going to do it. No. She wasn't. She'd promised herself it was the last time, and she was determined to uphold the deal. But the back of her mind continued to nag. Urging her on. Insisting that it was the only way to fix her problems. She knew that wasn't true. She knew it was doing the exact opposite. But as Clara leaned on the bathroom sink, watching her worn out, pathetic, flawed reflection, she realised that it truly was the only way.<p>

So she reached for the blade. She had it tucked away, safe, hidden in a secret little corner. It was her only one...she kept telling herself that if she could just bring her self to get rid of it...flush it, throw it into the vortex, _anything..._then she'd no longer be a risk to herself.

But Clara knew herself too well. She'd just find another way. She always did. She did what she had to do.

She sat down on the cold tile floor, crossing her legs and gripping the metal in her right hand. Her left fist was curled tightly, braced for the sweet, sweet pain of relief. In preparation, Clara let out a shaky sigh, and rolled up her sleeve.

She'd lost count of the scars long ago. Fresh and old, big and little, shallow and deep, she had them all. Each of them carried a story. Each of them marked _who she was._

And this was who Clara Oswald was.

She wasn't skinny enough...she despised her appearance with everything in her. Her face too wide, her hips too broad, she didn't even know where to start. She tried not eating but just got too hungry...she'd tried exercise, but even just running about with the Doctor felt like a lot for her little heart to handle.

So that just added another thing to her list. She was lazy.

_Cut._

She was annoying, too. She just said things sometimes...the worst, most horrifically embarrassing things. Why could she just control what she said? Why could she be a normal human being that didn't blurt out the most irrelevant, most unexpected thing. And the fact that this bothered her... The fact that she was so weak, so small, so damaged...bothered her just as much as any other burden would.

_Cut._

She wanted to talk to someone. She wanted help. She wanted a shoulder to cry on, someone to hold her hand kiss her scars, and tell her they loved her. But she didn't have anyone like that. Because her shoulder to cry on was long gone.

She lost her mother. The most important woman in the world to her. She was Clara's hope. _She _was her shoulder to cry on. Her comfort. Her _everything._ But she was long gone.

Of course, Clara had the Doctor. Her best friend. He was amazing...he was simply wonderful. But he wasn't someone she could go and speak to in the times she needed comfort. He'd think she was weak...think she wasn't special. Maybe even that she was doing all this for attention. Realise that the strong, brave young friend of his wasn't who he thought she was. He'd take her home, disgusted and ashamed of what she'd become.

Clara was _alone. _

_Cut._

That was something else she hated...and feared about herself. She worried that maybe, somewhere in the back of her mind, some of this _was _for attention. Sometimes she fantasized about the moment...that soon coming moment, when the Doctor would see the cuts on her wrists, and the questioning would begin. Because it would happen. Maybe soon, maybe not, but he eventually would find out. And when he did...what if it went differently than she thought? What if he _was_ sympathetic? What if he gave her a hug, tell her she wasn't alone, and try to help her through this disastrous turmoil in her life. What if...what if he _could _help her?

No. That wouldn't happen. If Clara knew one thing from her time spent with the Doctor...it was that things never turned out the way she expected...or hoped.

He couldn't help her.

And there it was. The final clincher. _Rejection. _

_Cut._

Clara nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a rapping on the door.

"Clara?" The Doctor called. "You almost ready?! We've got a lot to do today!" His voice was filled with such energy and excitement that Clara felt sick.

"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute!" She called back, heart thumping in her chest as it did each time she came close to being caught. Her hands shook as she tucked her blade safely away, and her legs trembled as she rose to her feet. A shallow pool of crimson stained the tile flooring beneath her, and a slow stream continued to drip from her wrist. She closed her eyes, ashamed and angry at herself for what she'd done. But in the back of her mind...deep down...she didn't regret it.

A soft, barely audible sob emitted from the back of her throat as she cleaned up. Her reflection in the mirror was almost an exact representation of death, both on the inside and out.

Why was she so weak?

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><p>His hands twitched nervously, his hearts fluttered violently, and his brow furrowed in concern as the Doctor awaited Clara's arrival. He stood planted in the console room, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. His gaze remained fixed on the floor as he contemplated over what to do.<p>

He'd heard her crying. His sensitive ears managed to pick up the sound of her sobs with ease. He'd thought something was wrong before, but now he knew. He just didn't know how to confront her. He'd had emotional companions before. Each of his friends had long histories of their own, and sometimes, the past just simply caught up with them. But he'd never known what to do. Never known how to comfort them. He just waiting awkwardly until their breakdowns had passed, and then the adventures would carry on as they should.

But with Clara, he felt different. He felt as if it were _completely _out of the question to let this pass without mention. He didn't know what it was about her...he may never know. But he cared for her. And if she was hurting...then maybe, just maybe, she'd accept a shoulder to cry on.

The sound of slow, ambling, shuffling footsteps broke into his thoughts. Clara began approaching him from the opposite side of the room, to his surprise looking a bit more lively. She'd splashed a bit of makeup on her face, her chocolate brown hair was brushed out and down, falling slightly in front of her left eye, and wore tight jeans with a decorative shirt. A black, very warm looking cardigan completed the picture. It was wrapped tightly around her body, and the ends of her sleeves were grasped tightly with her fingers.

"Right then!" The Doctor exclaimed, his worry edging ever so slightly as he skipped to the console. "Where to today, Clara Oswald?"

"Your choice!" Her voice came out slightly hoarse, and she pressed a hand to her mouth as she cleared it awkwardly. Her grasp on her sleeve never loosened.

"I've got an idea." He mused, catching sight of her warm wear again. "But where we're going you'll be quite hot in that cardigan."

Clara just shrugged, and he detected the slight tightening of her grip. "Well, it's bloody freezing in here. I'll take it off if I need to."'

"Cold? Cold in my TARDIS?" He gave a look of mock offense, fluttering his eyelids. "The TARDIS has a specifically adjusted climate to fulfill the human need for warmth." He patted the console proudly. "Seems to be working just fine..." The Doctor eyed Clara without really looking at her.

"Well, I'm cold, so I'll keep it on." She defended lightly, inching herself around to the other side of the console. She stared down at the buttons blankly, determined not to meet his eyes.

The Doctor walked around, worry returning as she took a slight step back. He caught up, lowering his gaze to hers, and placed his palm on her cheek.

"What're you doin'?" She questioned.

"The TARDIS doesn't get cold. Maybe you're getting sick." He lied, pretending to feel for a temperature as he let his fingertips lower to rest on the pulse point of her neck. He tried not to let his eyes widen as he felt the unexceptionably rapid beat, as if she were frightened, or perhaps nervous. Was she hiding something? "No, you're fine!" He lowered his hand back to his side, walking back to the other side of the console as if nothing had happened.

Clara lowered her gaze back to the floor. The Doctor could pick up the sound of her shaky breathing, and it was apparent that her nerves were growing.

"Clara." He peered at her from around the central console, and her eyes forcefully lit up and met his with raised eyebrows.

"Hmm?"

He studied her face, detecting the hints of deception, nerves, and sadness all mixed together in her expression.

"Are you okay?" He dared to ask.

"Of...of course." She stammered. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've just not seemed like yourself for a while." He shrugged, fiddling with the monitor in fake business.

"Oh, I'm fine." She assured him. But he no longer believed a word she said.

Then the Doctor did what he didn't want to do. What he so desperately had hoped it wouldn't come to. Because if he were wrong, there would be problems. But he had to do this. If she was in danger, he had to know for sure.

So he walked around the console again, only stopping when he arrived at her side. She didn't retreat this time, just stared up at him with anxious eyes. The Doctor bit his lip, closed his eyes for a brief second, and reached for her hand.

Clara's hands immediately went and clasped behind her back, and she did her best to put on an innocent face.

"Clara..." His voice shook with emotion. "Give me your hand."

"Actually...um..." Her voice trembled as well, and her breathing sped up. She backed away, maneuvering around him. "I'm actually feeling a bit ill. Maybe I am comin' down with something. I'll just...uh...I'll just go to my room, then." She sped off, retreating into the corridor before he could utter another word.

The Doctor watched her go, making no attempt to stop her. He just stared blankly ahead, face contorted with emotion. His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he mentally kicked himself for what he'd done. How could he have been so stupid? He'd seen the signs. It had all been there. The long sleeves, the recent lack of hand holds, the lethargy, the obvious depression...why didn't he do something before?

And now, because of that thick mind of his, Clara was suffering. He should have helped her when he'd first suspected something wrong.

He didn't realise that his legs had already started moving until now. He was already walking towards the corridor, setting course for Clara's bedroom where he was sure she had retreated.

He needed to quit dwelling on what he _should _have done, and instead focus on what he should be doing _now. _

The Doctor stood before her door, knuckles hovering in front of him as he debated with whether to knock. He could hear her crying...the uncontrollable sobs echoing all around him. It was muffled, like she had her face buried in something. Alas, his hand connected with the door in a few almost silent knocks.

"Clara?" He called, and he could hear the crying subside. Without waiting for another reply, fearing what may be currently taking place behind the closed door, he slowly turned the knob, and took a tentative step inside. "Clara..."

She sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, elbows propped on her knees and face buried in her hands. Her shoulders rose and fell rapidly as sobs shook her whole body. The black cardigan remained tightly wrapped around her, and her sleeves were still held tightly between her fingers. She made no sign to show she registered the Doctor's presence, but he knew that she knew he was there.

To the Doctor's surprise, what he was inwardly feeling wasn't what he had expected. He thought this moment would be awkward. Thought that he'd stand in the doorway until the sobs ebbed, then perform some odd, desperate attempt of somewhat comfort. But instead, he was feeling a mix of completely different emotions. He was sad. His was sympathetic. He was hurting for her. But most of all, he just wanted her hurt to come to an end.

Without any hesitation he seated himself down on the side of the bed. Clara's crying continued, albeit slightly quieter now. Her hands lowered to rest in her lap, tears continued to flow down her face, but her gaze remained fixed on nothing. She couldn't bring herself to meet the Doctor's eyes.

"Come here." It wasn't as much a demand as it was a request. The Doctor held out his hand to her, inwardly begging her to open up to him. He could only help if he knew what was going on.

His hand remained empty. Clara shook her head, too embarrassed and ashamed to make any kind of movement.

"Please..." He whispered. He wanted nothing more than to help her.

She sighed, still never grabbing his hand, but scooted over to the edge of the bed. Her legs dangled down, too short for her now bare feet to reach the floor.

The Doctor's hand glided across his lap, inching it's way towards hers. Just before he managed to grasp it in his own, she pulled away, just out of reach.

"Clara." He muttered, coming to the unwanted action of forcefully grabbing her left hand. She bit her lip, tugging weakly away, but he held tight. "Please let me see."

Ashamed and hurt, Clara's struggles loosened. A single tear fell from her eye, rolling down her cheek and landing on her hand. The Doctor wiped it away with his thumb, rubbing soothing circles over the top of her hand as he turned it palm up, then pulled it into his lap. With almost reluctant movements, he rolled up her sleeve.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping with everything in him that what he saw was somehow, someway, just a horrible nightmare. But when his eyelids fluttered open again, he confirmed that it wasn't. His expression darkened, and Clara's tears resumed.

"I'm sorry..." She muttered, lowering her head in shame.

The Doctor didn't reply, just took in the image in front of him. Deep, long cuts covered the length of her arm up to her elbow, both fresh and old. A bit of dried blood stained the surrounding areas, coating her wrist in a dark crimson shade.

"Oh, Clara." It was all his constricted throat could manage to utter. "Why?"

She shook her head, managing to relax into his touch a bit. "You won't understand."

"Believe me." He mumbled. "Whatever it is, I will."

For the first time, she brought her weary gaze to his. Her eyes were full of hurt and confusion, and just a little bit of interest. "What makes you say that?"

The Doctor looked down. He didn't want to do it. It was a secret he'd kept for years. No one had ever found out, and he'd thought that perhaps, no one ever would. But he had to do what was best for Clara. And if revealing one of his darkest secrets was what it took, then it's what he would do.

So he released Clara's wrist and lowered his hand to his own. He unbuttoned his left sleeve, and slowly peeled the fabric back. He closed his eyes at the memory. Something he regretted, and tried so very hard to forget. But there it was. A constant reminder of what he did. And who he lost.

Clara threw her good hand over her mouth in surprise as she acknowledge what was laid before her. Large white scars completely covered the Doctor's wrist...they were old. Nearly faded by now. But they were there. An affliction of skin and mind alike.

"But..." Clara was still in shock. She lowered her hand to her side, then glided it across until it came to reach the Doctor's. His fist was clenched, and his expression dark. She grazed her fingertips over his wrist, tracing each of the horrifying scars that littered his skin. "Why?"

"I lost my best friend." His eyes fluttered closed, and his face twisted in remembrance of Amelia Pond. "I thought nothing would ever be okay again. I was hurting. I didn't know what to do...so I made a mistake." His clench relaxed, and he enjoyed the feeling of her warm touch. "And I've regretted that mistake since the day I did this. But I've realised something since then."

"And what's that?"

"These scars serve as a constant reminder. Not just who I lost, but what I went through." His gaze flickered to Clara's and he reached over to catch her uninjured hand. "And what I overcame."

Clara's breath caught in her throat and she met the Doctor's eyes. Her lids fluttered, trying to blink away the soon returning tears.

"Please." The Doctor shifted around until he was facing Clara head on. He rolled his sleeve back down and buttoned it up, then inched his hands forward until the connected with Clara's. He twined his fingers with hers, rubbing his thumb along the back. "Tell me what's been going on."

She shook her head again. "I can't explain it."

"Please, just try." He begged, eyes betraying his increasing concern.

"It's different, though...compared to what you went through...I'm just going to seem like some whiny teenager..." She lowered her head, shame returning.

"No matter what you're going through, no matter how serious it is," He squeezed her hands comfortingly, taking heed in being delicate with her tender wrist. "I'm here for you. And I _will _help you through it, Clara Oswald."

A shadow of a smile appeared on her face. "I just..." It disappeared without even really being there. "There's so much that I hate about myself...so much I wish I could change."

"Like what?" He prompted.

"The way I look, for one." She shook her head with a sinful laugh. "See? Whiny teenager."

"No, no, Clara. I understand, it's okay. Go on." He urged.

Clara hesitated, but continued. Suddenly the words began pouring out of her mouth like a waterfall. She told him all about her self hate, and how selfish she felt because of it. She told him about how much she continued to miss her mum day after day, and how the pain of loss almost seemed to get worse. Then finally, she came to the worse part of all. The rejection. And the loneliness. As she spoke, she began to see a dark cloud begin to sweep across the Doctor's expression. As he listened to her tell him of all her fears, all the times she felt unwanted and unloved, he'd never felt worse in his life.

As her little rant came to a close, the Doctor was frozen. His eyes fixed on hers, his expression dark, he didn't know what to say.

"Clara...I..." He opened and closed his mouth several times as he tried to spit out the words. "I'm so sorry..."

"You shouldn't be." Her brow furrowed. "This is just me being selfish." She muttered. "I don't think about anyone but myself apparently."

"No, Clara, that couldn't be further from the truth. You are the most caring, lovable person I know." He smiled, and somehow Clara knew he wasn't just saying that to spare her feelings. "You can't help the way you feel. And I am so, so sorry that you feel that way, especially how you feel about your appearance...but." He broke off, let out a sigh, then stood up. He grasped her hand, holding it tightly between his palms, and urged her up. "Come with me."

She resisted a bit, but allowed him to lead her to the nearest bathroom. As they entered, Clara eyed the little corner where she had her blade hidden away, and prayed he didn't find it. But she still made a mental note to herself. And she meant it this time. She was going to get rid of the item.

The Doctor turned her to face the mirror, and put both his hands on her shoulders from behind. "Tell me what you see."

Clara sighed, and her face drooped sadly. "An overweight disappointment of a girl." She mumbled reluctantly, but truthfully.

"And do you know what _I _see?" He whispered, mouth just inches from her ear.

She didn't know how to reply, and just shook her head.

"I see a pretty...no...beautiful girl. The bravest girl I know. A girl that's looked after me and kept me in line for many years now, and has literally taken care of me all my life."

She opened her mouth to protest, ready to insist that those were just echoes of herself. Not the actual _her. _But he continued on before she could utter a single word.

"You are _amazing, _Clara Oswald. You are everything to me. Everything I care about." When she shook her head disbelievingly, he continued on. But this time he turned her to face him. He held her face in both of his hands, stroking her forehead with his thumb. "You aren't just that. You are so much more. More than I can explain, because I'm just one daft old man. But you are _My Clara._" He emphasised, lowering his head until he was level with hers. "_My _Clara. You are always brave, always funny, always _exactly _what I need."

And that was all it took for her to fall apart. The tears of confused and mixed emotions streams down her cheeks, leaving hot stains in their wake. The Doctor wrapped his arms tightly around her tiny frame, pulling her close to his chest and enveloping her in the most comforting of hugs. He began leading her back to her bedroom, stopping to grab something that Clara didn't see on the journey. He seated her back on her bed, plopping down next to her, and withdrew the warm, damp flannel he retrieved from the bathroom.

Clara dried her eyes, trying to bring herself back to reality. She sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve, not noticing until she felt a sharp sting what the Doctor was doing.

He held her hand palm up delicately with his, running wet cloth along her wrist. She winced as the warm water seeped into the open wounds, but didn't flinch our speak out.

Slowly and gently, he wiped away the traces of crimson from her delicate skin. Soon, it remained unblemished, other than the deep cuts that would forever remain. That was something that he couldn't fix, as much as he wanted to.

"Now for the even less fun part of the evening." He laughed a bit, disposing of the cloth. He traced his fingers lightly over each cut, examining them in the low lighting. "Some of these are gonna need stitches." He apologised.

She simply nodded in reply.

Admiring his finished work, he ran his thumb along her wrist and held it lightly in both hands. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, loving kiss to her damaged skin. He then brought his gaze back her hers and pressed his palm to her cheek, smiling softly. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." For the first time in forever, she didn't have to fake a smile. Her eyes lit up, a _true _smile flickered across her face, and she raised her hand to cover his. "I think I am."

His eyes searched hers for what seemed to be an eternity. "You know I love you, don't you?"

Clara's smile brightened. It wasn't as much a declaration of love as it was a sort of promise. He was her best friend, and she was his. They needed eachother, and would always be there for each other. The Doctor cared for her more than anything. He loved her. Maybe it was a romantic type of love, but that wasn't what they were dwelling on. He loved her as a best friend. A close friend. Someone he didn't want to lose, or ever come close to losing again.

They pulled eachother close for a tight, warming hug. Clara buried her face in the Doctor's vest, comforted by his embrace as he rubbed small, soothing circles on her back.

"I know."

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><p><em>I kissed the scars on her skin<em>

_I still think you're beautiful_

_And I don't ever want to lose my best friend_

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><p>Song #1: My Immortal - Evanesence<p>

Song #2: A Match Into Water - Pierce the Veil


End file.
